there will come a time gigantic waves will crush the junk that i have saved

I want, of course, to tell you about the marathon I'll be doing in less than two weeks now - my first one. But I've no angle to tell it from, no hook or line of attack. I will run it and it will be 42.2 kilometres long, because that is how long all marathons are and I am a Modern European who understands the imperial measurement system but feels it is time to let it go. I am not running in memory of anyone or towards a cure for Ebola. Running usually makes me feel better, or calmer, but I am not one of those idiots who claim that runners would never need therapy or anti-depressants. I have no stunning goal in mind, just a time that I will feel satisfied with, whilst leaving me with room for improvement because, right now at least, I would very much like there to be another marathon, and probably many more. A lot of runners seem to only do one of them, most likely honouring a promise they made to themselves after 35 kilometres, to get their cement legs and groaning lungs through it. To keep the tears back. There've been tears already for me in this process, a couple of weeks of hurt and confusion rising like choking vomit after a long warm up race so poorly executed that I nearly told the cub scouts handing out water and encouragement at the final station to go fuck themselves. I expect less of that on the day, and high fives will be stored like glycogen. What I want, more than anything, is to feel like I'll do it all again before too long. So that's the narrative thrust, should we need one here, I guess: no redemption, memorial or scorching glory, just a competent start at the age of 33.